Jaun Elia: Poet, Lover, Or Lunatic?

Named Syed Hussain Sibt-e-Asghar Naqvi—better known by his nom de plume Jaun Elia—he rose to prominence as a revolutionary force in the world of modern Urdu literature.

It's remarkable how the poet's physical absence from the world could do nothing to dwindle away his influence.

Jaun Elia was much more than just a prolific poet; he was also a polyglot, biographer, thespian, philosopher, and scholar with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

His intellectual pursuits and interests were vast, including philosophy and logic to Islamic history, Shi’a traditions, religious sciences, Western literature, and Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism). It's worth noting that prior to coming out with his debut poetry collection, he had already translated at least eight significant works from Arabic and Persian into Urdu.

Hailed as a child prodigy, Jaun began writing poetry when he was just eight. Having said that, it took more than five long decades for his first collection of poems, "Shayad" (meaning “peradventure” or “perhaps”) to see the light of day and finally get published in 1991.

Ralph Waldo Emerson's quote, “To be great is to be misunderstood,” from his essay Self-Reliance (1841),

"Today has me feeling really sad and downhearted. I think I've let go of my dreams; they've slipped away from my grasp! I've been living my life in a perpetual state of intoxication, imbibing like anything, all in pursuit of shattering the boundaries of what's forbidden and what's not. My only aim was to elevate society to its true stature, but in the end, I gave up! This is not the society I envisioned; it falls far short of the ideals of Plato, Lycurgus, or Marcus Aurelius. It is, in truth, a society of midgets, and I, too, am a poet of short stature."

"He lived in a state of constant creative frenzy. There had been times when I saw him rouse from his slumber in the middle of the night, desperately searching for a pen and paper. And the next morning, he would astonish you with a freshly penned poem."

he wasn’t just a poet but a bona fide scholar as well, who would never leave his house without a book in hand,"

When asked why the poet waited as many as 60 long years to publish his debut collection of poems, Shah explained, "Jaun had a timeless vision. He looked far into the future, beyond decades and centuries. And he never felt rushed because he knew his works would stand the test of time."

Jaun was a poet of fierce emotions and queer actions. He wrote letters to a lover who didn't exist, dreamt of dying young (though it never came to pass), and made the dreadful act of spitting out blood—due to tuberculosis (TB)—seem almost poetic.

His unconventional verses, eccentric mannerisms, and so-called dramatic performances never stopped attracting relentless scrutiny and objection. Some argued that the "rage" and "frankness" in his work conflicted with the graceful tradition of Urdu poetry. Having said that, those who find fault with his style (of writing) should cast an eye over the words of Khalil Gibran as follows: "If your heart is a volcano, how can you expect flowers to bloom in your hands?"

Perhaps you're wondering why it took me so long to publish my book. To be honest, it was my internal conflict—buried guilt and unhealed emotional wounds—that kept hindering my progress for years. I’ll discuss this at length in the following sections of the text.

It became evident to me in 1986 that I had been trapped in an all-consuming darkness for over a decade. Each day, I found myself in the darkest corner of my desolate room, paralysed by even the faintest sound of a voice or the slightest glimmer of light. People seemed like walking nightmares to me, and the fear that surrounded me made it impossible to envision any route to recovery or escape.

On one such day, my long-time friend Saleem Jafri, who had just flown back to Karachi from Dubai, paid me a visit. That's when he looked at me with a determined glint in his eyes and said, "Jaun bhai, I won't let you melt away like this. It's only you who have always mentored me in my pursuit of revolutionary dreams, a unified society, and the triumph of the people." To which I replied, “You know, my friend, that my life has been a gloomy abyss for years and my mind a raging inferno. Tears stream from my eyes in an unrelenting flow, like open wounds dripping. Whenever I try to read or write, it feels like my eyes are ablaze, as if I'm trying to decode a message carved into flames on the hottest day imaginable in hell. But I haven’t let go of my dreams. My eyes may burn, but the cool winds of my dreams still flutter through my lashes every so often.”

Finding a poet who decides to sort out their works while dealing with the kind of heartache and despair that I’ve been carrying for what feels like an eternity is certainly a rare thing. I must say that my suffering might even be worse than that of Abu Hayyan al-Tawhidi, the well-known Persian thinker and philosopher from the 10th century. His despair under the weight of harsh criticism, which branded his works as inferior and inadequate, led him to such depths of desolation that he set his priceless books and manuscripts afire.

His linguistic prowess was equally impressive, as he spoke fluently in a number of languages, including Arabic, English, Persian, Hebrew, and Sanskrit. He would lose himself in writing for hours on end, passionately capturing his thoughts and ideas on paper, undeterred by the possibility that his work might never be published. Baba also had a passion for astronomy that never faded.

he might have been unaware of how his two-dimensional depiction of hell would transform into a vivid three-dimensional reality for his sceptical, agnostic, and unbelieving son, Jaun Elia, who—within its fiery depths—remained trapped, forever ablaze, but never reduced to mere ashes.

Plotinus, the illustrious Greek philosopher, expresses in one of his writings, "I deeply regret being confined within this mortal vessel7." I, too, in those years of my boyhood, harboured a similarly myopic and naive belief.

I found tuberculosis—"which I named the rebellious malady"—to be mysteriously alluring, with its promise of an untimely, poetic death.

I find it hard to understand why the party went to great lengths to link Urdu, a language born and widely spoken in the Indian subcontinent, with the religion of Islam. I feel compelled to express my strong disagreement with the League's divisive efforts here, which ended up turning my cherished mother tongue into a political tool and an object of ridicule.

Prior to the Partition, there prevailed a spirit of religious tolerance and broad-mindedness, making even the younger, semi- or non-religious generations feel safe and at ease. It was an environment wherein clerics and Islamic scholars were generally tolerant of the dissenting opinions of the youth, often dismissing their atheistic remarks with healthy humour and emphasising that a serious pursuit of religion would guide them back to the righteous path of spiritual awakening. The harshest words of reproach or criticism from religious authorities for the so-called "misguided" youth were likely to be: "Despite being well-schooled and lettered, they remained deprived of the truth."

Those were the times when people tended to trust their own moral compass (or conscience) over religious law to decide what was right or wrong.

In fact, my acting performances had already earned me recognition beyond my local vicinity before my poetry could gain any broader acclaim.

The fate that many had awaited with bated breath finally came to pass, and the once-whole nation was chopped into two pitiable pieces. It was on August 14th and 15th, 1947, that the Subcontinent embarked on its new journey into a strange, uncharted era. While the night sky lit up with millions of lamps celebrating independence across the two freshly divided nations, I found myself able to see only darkness. It was because the freedom I had hungered for all my life eventually materialised into an unforeseen, disturbing reality. Not even in the wildest corners of my imagination could I have perceived an independence as enshrouded in animosity and bloodshed as the one we were living through.

I've always been a sceptic and a rationalist, and even today, I never try to impose my beliefs on others. While I readily concede the possibility of my viewpoint being invalid and yours being valid, my steadfast allegiance to the philosophy of communism remains unimpaired, which is evident not only in my actions and speech but also in my poetic works.

It is beyond my imagination to picture any revered historical figure or religious leader—such as a divine messenger—embracing and promoting the principles of capitalism. Let us consider the hypothetical scenario of Hazrat Isa22 living in modern times. Would he ever endorse a capitalist system? Can we picture Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) or his esteemed companion, Hazrat Ali, embracing capitalism, even for a fleeting moment? As a matter of fact, the most virtuous and noble figures in history consistently harboured aspirations for a society built upon the principles of socialism and welfarism.

Even Proudhon24 once voiced an idea similar to what I sought to express in this closing couplet of my ghazal. He advocated for an economic system that upholds the fundamental principles of the current structure while allowing individuals to access collectively owned resources for personal needs or small-scale ventures without the pursuit of unjust profits or rent. This would entail doing away with coinage and barter practices altogether.

Time led me deeper into the unbounded expanse of philosophy, but it was nothing short of pity that my first encounter was with the writings of Berkeley25, the noted British empiricist. He argued that things exist solely owing to our perception of them, as opposed to the conventional notion that we perceive them because they exist. In simpler terms, his theory suggested that if we were to lock a book in a cabinet and completely forget about it, the book's existence would gradually diminish, ultimately leading to its disappearance from the universe. This line of thought fascinated me like anything, offering a sense of contentment to my reflective mind. Nevertheless, it also left me entirely perplexed! It became my routine to hide a random book in my cupboard, sealing it away for a certain period of time. But every time I checked back, it stayed exactly as I'd left it—untouched and undisturbed. Despite the predictable disappointment that accompanied this practice, I continued with determination, locking the cupboard time and time again in a bid to completely remove any trace of the book's presence from the universe. This mode of conceptual thinking weighed heavily on my mind at first. Having said that, it was Berkeley's mastery of theory and explanation that eventually provided me with the means to cope with it.

I discovered a different avenue as I got to explore the depths of yet another philosophical masterpiece, "An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding," penned by the illustrious David Hume. It was Dr. Abdul Aleem—an esteemed communist, thinker, and progressive writer in Delhi—who pointed me towards Hume's writings. I have to confess that I never had a reason good enough to place faith in this world, but after reading the said book, even my religious convictions started to waver. While Berkeley strategically disrupted only the framework of my mind, Hume was the one whose ideas penetrated deep into my intellect, senses, and spirit, profoundly altering my entire being.

My unquenchable thirst for knowledge and unfeigned love for culture helped me cut through such trying times. They enabled me to weather the storms of life with greater strength and fortitude.

Someone once asked Protagoras30 about his thoughts on God, to which the great philosopher replied, "That's too complex a question, and life is perhaps too short to find all the answers."

Voltaire, the French Enlightenment writer and philosopher, famously remarked, "Beliefs can often be quite humorous." While I was never opposed to employing some "humorous beliefs" as a potential remedy for the internal conflict and anguish I had been grappling with, I felt reluctant to turn to the recommended self-styled keepers of philosophy for guidance.

Plotinus, a towering figure in metaphysics and mysticism, certainly deserves the first mention in this context. A philosopher of lifelong dedication, his thought possessed a poetic spirit. He believed that even to say "God exists" is to miss the mark, for the Divine transcends the bounds of existence and non-existence altogether. God, the omnipresent and ultimate controlling entity, outclasses possibly every trait or quality that falls within the grasp of human understanding or interpretation.

Even with my very limited background in philosophy, I can confidently claim that the term vujud has always been understood as it has been described here. Now, do we not inherently ascribe an essence to God when we declare that He exists? We further go on to claim that everything exists in some form and that matter is the basis of all existence. It is thus reasonable to argue that "existence" and "corporality" are synonymous and possibly interchangeable terms. So when we say that God exists, it outright implies that He is an entity. And if this is not the case, then God must be a nonentity, or nothingness. The concept of nothingness can further be interpreted in two ways: either as an existence beyond limits or as something that exists without being an entity. "If God is not an entity, then what is He?" This is the very question that remains unanswered by the proponents of ‘transcendence.’

Many are of the view that everything in the universe comes from a single source, while others don't seem to concur with this notion. I personally think that any form of earthly reasoning, logic, or debate on this topic is meaningless. I would add that only by bravely acknowledging our own limitations and shortcomings can we accept that we are by no means in a position to question this matter, let alone get any answers. Should the urge to question persist, we ought to question our own intellect and strive to comprehend the universe's origins, true nature, reality, and extremities. Isn't it a pity that the questions originating from our minds are not only unanswerable but also defy the bounds of formulation and explanation? Let me ask: whether your inclinations lie in philosophy or science, can you expand upon the discussed elements of the universe?

From what I've learned so far, it seems that everything in the cosmos—every object and speck of matter—is just a series of ongoing occurrences taking place across countless corners of time and space.

An esteemed Islamic scholar and thinker, whose name I fail to remember, once argued that calling God "existent" detracts from His transcendental essence. By this, they meant that "existent" is a word commonly reserved for ordinary beings or entities, and applying it to the Supreme Being might be viewed as blasphemous.

Another perplexing thought that often preoccupies my mind is whether the universe truly has a purpose. And I also wonder why historical figures as vastly different as Aristotle and Hitler ever existed. I find myself oddly curious about how the world would be different if the Himalayas were located in the south instead of the north. I also think about how human anatomy might change if we had no hair around our belly button. Moreover, I observed that some of my sweethearts had delicate, soft hair on their calves, while others had smooth, bare skin. A few had deep, pronounced navels, while others had subtler ones. As a poet, lover, and beloved, it might seem inappropriate for me to touch on such observations. But from a logical and unemotional standpoint, I feel justified in asking, "Why is there such variation?" What kind of order lies within this disorderliness?

To me, the universe is simply what it outwardly appears to be, like a story of perpetual and eternal nakedness. This is one of the concerns that's common to both poetry and philosophy. It is important to note, however, that poetry addresses nearly all the issues of philosophy, while philosophy does not encompass everything that the former tends to deal with.

Philosophy focuses primarily on intellectual pursuits, whereas poetry spans intellect, thoughts, emotions, feelings, and just about everything else that requires consideration, making its scope much broader.

Growing up, I was surrounded by the belief that the art of poetry was complete prophetism in and of itself, not merely a fragment, as many others thought. Baba described true poetry as a divine symphony, a sacred recitation, and a hymn suffused with the essence of heaven!

The word "sh'er"—commonly meaning a poetic couplet—is believed by many to have originated from Arabic and is thought to be the root of another Arabic word, "Shaoor" (wisdom). This belief, however, is not entirely true. The word actually comes in Arabic from the Hebrew term "shiir," which means melody, harmony, or mellifluousness.

It's worth noting that, before the revelation of the Quran, they only knew poetry as adhering to fixed metrical patterns and rules.

In our zeal to celebrate some remarkable men of letters—for instance, Plato and Nietzsche—we often mislabel them as "poets" and their works as "poetry."

As far as I know, works that diverge from established metrical and rhythmic patterns have never been recognised as "poetry" in the entire history of the art form.

When a person with an educated mind and a creative bent rises beyond the day-to-day demands and struggles of life to find solace in their own company, they bring the surrounding silence to life with words. And these words are nothing but poetry! The existence of various art forms, including poetry, painting, storytelling, and sculpture, is indicative of humanity's inherent drive to push beyond its own boundaries.

Art can also be described as the manifestation of an artist's conscious and impulsive desires stemming from their journey towards self-expansion. After all is said and done, I regard both poetry and love as pathways to strengthen and broaden one's sense of self.

How I perceive "self" is the state of an individual's consciousness—whether it be conscious, unconscious, unfeigned, or influenced—that can be stable or dynamic within their societal and economic environments.

Even music, which is frequently viewed as an elevated and quintessential form of the fine arts, shares a deep-seated bond with mathematics. With the exception of storytelling and theatre, one could argue that mathematics is deeply intertwined with almost every other form of fine art.

Poetry, owing to its rhythmic, metrical, and structural elements, can also be called a branch of mathematics. In other words, poetry is the music the mind makes, using words as its instruments.

When logic hurries through the gradual process of reasoning in an attempt to jump to an inference or outcome, it gives rise to metaphysics. Science, on the other hand, comes to life when logic patiently follows the gradual steps of deductive and inductive reasoning to reach a conclusion or outcome. And poetry springs forth when logic finds its place in the sphere of perception while harmonising with the exquisite rhythm of imagination and emotion. It follows, then, that poetry consists of four basic elements: intelligence, perception, imagination, and emotion.

science is mostly concerned with perception, whether direct or indirect. Religion, however, is largely founded on imagination, while philosophy is deeply rooted in intelligence. Simply put, poetry is distinct in its ability to integrate perception, imagination, intelligence, and emotion, differentiating it from all the other disciplines.

Furthermore, it must be stated that poetry uniquely acts as a bridge across the river of time, linking the past, present, and future together.

Poetry calls for a dual-minded individual who can adeptly blend intellect and emotions to form a creative bond with reality.

One could also define poetry as the art of witnessing an incident through two different sets of eyes and deciphering it with the understanding of two distinct minds.

in the process of writing poetry—a poet goes beyond the typical limits of perception, imagination, and rational thought, ultimately reaching a point where they reveal or express their true self and unfeigned character.

I would take this further by positing that the defining traits of a true poet naturally lean more towards ethics than aesthetics. That said, I understand this perspective might come as a surprise or even be unsettling to many, particularly when voiced by someone like me. Let me also stress that I have no desire to surprise my readers at all! You’re probably wondering what my point is, aren’t you? So what I mean is that, in art, ethical considerations that surpass or fall short of what we classify or perceive as "aesthetics" should be called convictions, not ethics. And convictions usually have no inherent connection to beauty or art. Moreover, in my role as a poet, I am obliged to refrain from supporting the imposition of convictions or belief systems. These systems often stand in opposition to the principles of inherent or unconditional beauty, virtue, and art.

We must acknowledge that the real essence of poetry, or creativity, is fundamentally external and not rooted in the mind. In fact, a poet's true existence lies beyond their own consciousness.

We cannot do away with the reality that the inner self is rooted in the existence of the outer self, and the very essence of the mind's core is moulded by its external influences.

Knowledge is gained exclusively through the senses, and it is the mind alone that holds the power to give commands.

Our thoughts do not originate from within, but from outside of us. It’s simply not possible for us to think internally! Thoughts are formed through language, which itself is a product of external influences and social interactions. In the solitude of an individual's being, there were only sounds, which took the form of language when placed within a social framework.

The only evidence needed to be recognised as a true poet can be acquired by observing and assessing one’s own being from an external viewpoint.

We pay homage to Dante and acknowledge his genius without any fear or hesitation, even though he was not respectful of our most revered Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and Hazrat Ali. We are generally not afraid of discussing or writing about Darwin's and Lamarck's theories of evolution, even though they don't sit well with our religious convictions.

And we have no qualms when it comes to discussing Freud's views on sexuality, which include his comparison of an infant's persistent sucking on a teat (or soother) with an elderly person's act of kissing a sacred object time after time.

With that being said, when a humble and deprived German thinker—who lacked even the means to arrange medical care for his dying child or gather adequate funds for their last rites—sought to bring to light the core (social and economic) issues within human communities, he was labelled a "rebel" and "traitor" against religion, spiritualism, and ethics by almost all capitalist states. The man in question was Karl Marx. Even in the face of his own deprivation and hunger, he remained committed to relieving the pain and struggles of all humankind. His mind was constantly occupied by this mission, and even on the day he took his last breath, the great thinker was found deep in thought, as he often was, lost in his divine reflections.

What I want to emphasise is that it is our ethical duty, through wisdom, knowledge, and artistic expression, to seize the capitalist systems by the collar and unveil their sinister motives to the world. It is my firm belief that the unchecked rise of capitalism in America and Western Europe is nothing short of a glaring blot on the cultural and aesthetic progress of the 20th century.

I don't have much time left, but I treasure every fleeting moment as if it were worth thousands of seconds on an electronic clock. I hold fast to the hope that these moments will bring me a wealth of new dreams, for dreaming is my only true talent and perhaps the only thing I excel at.